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I Do Not Feel Very Poetic Today

I do not feel very poetic today-
And now I make that feeling the ‘subject’ of a poem-
Once Poetry seemed to be confined
To certain more sublime subjects -

But in our time
When every Form seems to expand to take into itself its opposite
Poetry makes itself of the non- poetic also -
There is no subject apparently
Which is non- poetic
Once a poem is written about it-

I do not feel very poetic today
And these plain and unbeautiful lines
This awkward presentation
Is what I am capable of

Poem or not,
I have written it now.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Feeling Of Poetry Is Lost

THE FEELING OF POETRY IS LOST

The feeling of poetry is lost -
Lines are written,
But they are without poetic feeling.
Dutiful lines which do not inspire.

I try
Line by line
To restore my soul.
I do not feel I am doing this.

Can a poem be written without poetic feeling inside?

Is what I am doing now
A poem?
Or is it simply one more small delusion
Through which a life is gotten through?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Spirit Of Poetry!

when a spirit of poetry decent,
it came
In a form of dove

When it came
Jesus became first poet under sun
And Almighty God
Was already, first poet over sun?

Using Poetry in poetic foam
Almighty GOD spoke through poetry
And he is a poet himself

Now his poetry is everywhere, and anywhere
We interact with poets
Words are like soil, are everywhere
Brighter that Sun
His poetic lights lead the way

When he likes
He will come
He will be in poetic foam
To Re-arrange poems
Schedule them in a poetic manner

On a judgment, He will met poets first
And secondly meet
Those who haven't written a poem
To Discuss similes, metaphors and personifications

Future of poetry is in heaven

poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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The Paradox Of Poetry

The Paradox of Poetry
Is that every poem contains its own questions-
And that each question it asks
Is answered in another question
Raised from somewhere else-

The paradox of Poetry
Is that its meanings
Cannot be contained by themselves-
And so each paradox too
Bears within it its own ambiguity-

I call this a poem about Poetry
But in Paradox
It is a statement of Love
Which abstract as it is
Lacks poetic feeling
A non- poetic poem
Aspiring to be poetry too-

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Wanted A Poem/But There Was No Poetry In Me

I WANTED A POEM/ BUT THERE WAS NO POETRY IN ME

I wanted a poem
But there was no poetry in me
I said to myself from outside,
‘Write the feeling of a song'
But I had no song within me-

Poetry did not flow
No music moved me
I was alone with a Mind
That had no heart or song-

And then I writing
Simply tried to listen to myself
And what I heard
Was these awkward non- poetic lines
That make a poem
Which is not true poetry
And yet here now
proclaims its own rhythm as this page.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Almost Poetic

It's almost poetic
The way you speak
It's almost poetic
The way you think
The way you sleep and dream
It's almost poetic
The way I feel for you
It's almost poetic
The way we argue
It's almost poetic
When we say goodbye
Not knowing the next time
We'll see each other
You are the curved line
And I am the dot
That creates the question mark..
And it's almost poetic
If it were not so pathetic.

poem by Jeremy Rascon
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The Poetry Groupies

Where are the poetry groupies
Those girls who’d give their hand for a poem
Who’d lay down for a verse so finely written
In the hope of some poetic dedication
If I write it, will they then come
To pay homage, adoration to my pen
Where are the girls who’d give their all for a poem
Those who are drawn to such a man
A romantic who writes to seduce
To sway the heads of each pretty girl
With poetic tales of a great love
How beautiful the object of all affection
What are all these poems and tales worth
If this question remains unanswered
Where are the poetry groupies
Who’d give their hand to a poem
And their all to a poet

poem by Matthew Holloway
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~ Psychosomatic Lingerie ~

From: Sadiqullah Khan
To: Nivedita Bagchi
Date-Time: 12/23/2009 4: 47: 00 AM (GMT -6: 00)
Subject: A Nobel Prize
-
See my poem, A Nobel Prize. I have included ur poem there. Is it ok?
-
To Poet Sadiqullah Khan:
By love you’ve embosomed my poem…
On the eve of New Year Poet niv
‘Crowning’ your poetic affections
Regards for the honor,
In Ever Poetic Tieship.
niv
31 December,2009.
-
Sadiqullah Khan (12/23/2009 4: 30: 00 AM)

A Nobel Prize

I
As on today
24 Dec,2500 BC
Being the head
Of the committee
Where a beautiful poem
PSYCHOSOMATIC LIGERIE
By MS. NIVEDETA BAGCHI SPC.UK.
Has been submitted
For review
And I hereby
Bestow upon her
And she is
Very kind
To accept
A NOBEL PRIZE
For the reasons
That she has written
Pure and sensible
Human emotions
And feelings
Applause
Congrats
........
24/12/2009
~ PSYCHOSOMATIC LINGERIE ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
24 December,2009.

Its scare
And rare
To get
Privacy
Intimacy.

Don’t care
I do dare
To bare
Psychosomatic
Lingerie
In poetry
Else are
Scary
Parry
Fury
Lurid hungry.

Ms. Nivedita
A wee lory
The Poetry
Her emotional
Sanctuary.

-
Sent to Noble Prize conferring committee:
[In Best Poem category for the year 2500 BC ~ niv ~ LOL! ! ]

------

Copyright reserved by the author

poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Mood

A POEM MOOD

The thin clear ordinary mind
Is not for Poetry-

One needs a Deep Doubleness within-
A certain kind of Ironic Longing-
A calling out for Meaning
That knows it cannot ever Define itself completely-

A Poem Mood
Is a different kind of Being.

One can sometimes make it come-
One can sometimes respond to it,
And make the Poem with it.
But is not so simple
And not so easy.

I have the Mind and Mood of a Poem now-
But how many would – be poetic lines have I written
Including these perhaps
Without it?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0026 To live in poetry

So often, poets
with their poetic eyes,
ears, minds, hearts, souls,
record actions that
are already poetry or poetic
in themselves
or so it seems
which makes it easy
for poetic poets to write
poetic poetry

as when I watch you
poised so still, sitting there,
your face against the light,
painting meeting sculpture,
still as any animal,
still as any goddess

roaming the cosmos in your mind
seeking, ballpoint poised,
the answer to some hidden
crossword clue

living in poetry

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Your Question About Poetry

You asked if my poetic skills
would be what an emetic fills
namely a basin of foul smelling
regurgitate, there is no telling
what someone sees in poetry
for me it's what the gods decree
somewhere the talent lies and sleeps
until the time comes where he keeps
it under wraps no longer, hidden
and out it comes, at times unbidden.
Poetic skills are not for all
some do prefer the shopping Mall
but those who can appreciate
and joyfully do contemplate
a poem as it lives and loves
the subject can be hawks or doves
those are the ones with open hearts
and they take in this art of arts.

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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The Poem I Did Not Write Today

THE POEM I DID NOT WRITE TODAY

The poem I did not write today
Will never be written.
No one knows what it is
Or where it is
'How it can be? ' is another question
No one can answer.

The poem I did not write today
Never went away
It is always here with me and with you
It is the same simple poem
Written over and over again
In our everyday minds.

It is the poem of love of life
The poem of happiness
The poem of belief in God
And in the goodness in the world to come
It is the poem which believes too that poetry will help save the world.

It is the good poem
The happy poem
The poem I did not write today
Is the poem my life is writing now and always
And with you it says
‘What a miracle it is that we are here
reading and writing
and loving life as we do’.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem I Cannot Write/ Is The Poem Beyond My Own Poetry

THE POEM I CANNOT WRITE/ IS THE POEM BEYOND MY OWN POETRY

The poem I cannot write
Is the poem beyond my own poetry -
It is greater than what I am capable of -
It surprises in ways my awkward phrases cannot
It is complex beyond my simple simplicity
It has an infectious beauty
That demands to be recited again and again -
It lingers in the mind and memory
As a strange new beauty beyond anything done by anyone else before.

The poem I cannot write
Has been written will be written
By those greater than myself-
I have the great blessing
Of being able to read them
But I cannot join them
Despite a lifetime of trying.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem Which Makes No Reference To Poetry

A POEM WHICH MAKES NO REFERENCE TO POETRY

A poem which makes no reference to poetry
And does not wonder who and what the poet is-
A poem that makes meanings of life outside the world of its own self- reflection-
A poem that is what life is
In some far and different way-
That poem
Waiting elsewhere
Written by someone else
So great in its beauty
And so powerful in its light
That poem written by someone else
About something I know nothing about
In a way I never dreamed or imagined
That poem is not written by me
And never will be.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I sleep Poetry

Last night I wrestled with poetry
As if a lion wrestling with its prey

I sleep poetry
I dream poetry

I walk poetry on thin line ropes
binding together steeply slopes
I make love to poetry like a new catch
On heat waiting to be let loose from its latch

So out of ten if I am bad, take a pen
And give me a score of five or a four
I constantly make love to poetry
With dramatic grammatical metaphors

The root of my poetic hunger
Is I starve myself a bit longer
In sleep I twiddle my poetic lines
Sharpen them to be as fine as a riddle

I sleep poetry
I drink poetry
Not just to quench my thirst
But to differentiate amongst
Good, Better and Best

There shall come the day
I have to say
When I will definitely call it a truce
When I have run out of poetic juice

2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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This Poem

THIS POEM

This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written

THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Is My Poem

This is my poem of ______. (date)
This is my poem, written by myself.
This is my first poem never written.
This is my last poem now to be written.
This is the poem I would have written
if I had lived yesterday what I lived today.

This is my poem changing white light
into gold-leaf
and blue into violet.

This is my poem like a heaven twisting
and turning inside of me
all night long.

This is my poem of opening a window
to show what was always inside.

This is my poem encompassing everything
hope can bestow or chance agree with.

This is my poem of open-ended freedom.

This is my poem breathing life into motion.

This is my poem written as I wrote it
a living being.

And this is my poem ending;
but only for today..

poem by Patti Masterman
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Totally Biased

I do not often write free form
to me it is not poetry.
Freely admit my prejudice
I think it’s just a passing phase
Although I can appreciate
poetic and well written prose
This does not make it poetry
When I consult my dictionary
it makes it very clear to me.
All writing must be one of those
It can’t be both at he same time.
Prose poetry cannot exist
an obvious oxymoron
Though modern writer still insist
that what they write is poetry
.It may be really beautiful
and well presented on the page
but definitely not poetry.
Why can they not be satisfied
with their well written thoughts in prose.
Why do they call it poetry
a dandelions not a rose.
Its meter defines poetry
it doesn’t even need to rhyme.
Even free verse had its rules
but writers seem to think today
There are no rules anything goes.
I nail my colours to the mast
Not afraid to let my bias show.

31-Jan-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A day without a poem

this is a day without a poem,
but it begins like a poem,
flows like a poem,
strikes like a poem,
sucks like a poem,
and ends like a poem.

(and there is me, contrived by this poetic motion.)

poem by Celine Charcoal
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A Live Poetry Bomb

All people, fearfully call him a live poetry bomb,
because his rhymes are deadlier than bullet’s storms.
When fires stanzas through his mouth’s barrel,
hapless mind feels naked, in their wisdom’s apparel.
He often emails unsuspecting people to read his poetry
and coax and beseech them to post their commentaries.
Many victims who had fell to fatal gunshots of his poetry,
are still smarting from his deadly epitaphs in cemeteries.

He assembles vague paragraph and slices it into two half,
so to fire it as a poem, and soar up his statistical graph.
Whenever he is short of ammunitions for poetic fights,
he searches for explosives on rhyming dictionary’s sites.
Then he fuses combustive lines for his lethal mission,
so to blow up all the literature with atomic poetry fission.
Then he ruthlessly bombs his poem on all poetry websites,
wherein community of poets gather to taste literary delight.
Then he selfishly comments on other’s poems with fervour,
knowing well that others would gladly reciprocate his favours.

Everyone in the society dreads his nuclear poetic blast,
as it could push a poetic world into a literary holocaust.
People call him a poetic blitzkrieg of worst kind,
as he shamelessly shatters a fragile peace of their minds.
Even God the bard, duck downs bombardment from him,
for he mercilessly mutilates his inspiration’s streams.
Lo! all the wounded minds pray at mangled poem’s tomb
for God to descend and diffuse, ticking poetry bomb.

Dr Hitesh C Sheth

28/10/2008

poem by Hitesh Sheth
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